Garden of Beasts

considered that sometimes the procedure was performed for medical reasons, even presumably on the most Aryan of babies.
    Kohl searched the pockets and found no identification. Nothing at all, in fact. Curious.
    “You took nothing from him? There were no documents? No personal effects?”
    “No, sir.”
    Breathing heavily as he knelt, the inspector examined the body carefully and found the man’s hands to be soft, free of calluses. He spoke, half to himself, half to Konrad Janssen. “With these hands, trimmed nails and hair and residue of talcum on his skin, he doesn’t work labor. I see ink on his fingers but not much, which suggests he’s not in the printing trade. Besides, the patterns suggest the ink comes from handwriting, probably ledgers and correspondence. He’s not a journalist, for he would have traces of pencil lead on his hands and I can see none.” Kohl knew this because he’d investigated the deaths of a dozen reporters just after the National Socialists came to power. Not one of the cases had been closed; not one was being actively investigated. “Businessman, professional, civil servant, government . . .”
    “Nothing under his nails either, sir.”
    Kohl nodded then probed the man’s legs. “An intellectual man most likely, as I said. But his legs are very muscular. And look at those excessively worn shoes. Ach, they make my own feet burn just to glance at them. My guess is that he is a walker and a hiker.” The inspector grunted as he rose with some effort.
    “Out for a stroll after an early lunch.”
    “Yes, very likely. There is a toothpick, which might be his.” Kohl retrieved and smelled it. Garlic. He bent down and smelled the same scent near the victim’s mouth too. “Yes, I believe so.” He dropped the toothpick into one of his small brown paper envelopes and sealed it.
    The young officer continued. “So, a robbery victim.”
    “Certainly a possibility,” Kohl said slowly. “But I think not. A robber taking everything that the man had on him? And there aren’t any gunpowder burn patterns on the neck or ear. That means the bullet was fired from some distance. A robber would have been closer and confronted him face-to-face. This man was shot from behind and the side.” A lick of the stubby pencil tip, and Kohl recorded these observations in his crinkled notebook. “Yes, yes, I’m sure there are robbers who would lie in wait and shoot a victim then rob him. But that doesn’t fit what we know about most thieves, does it?”
    The wound also suggested that the killer had not been the Gestapo, SS or Stormtroopers. The bullet in such cases usually was fired from point-blank range into the front of the brain or the back.
    “What was he doing in the alley?” the inspector candidate mused, looking around as if the answer were lying on the ground.
    “That question doesn’t interest us yet, Janssen. This is a popular shortcut between Spener Street and Calvin Street. His purpose may have been illicit but we’ll have to learn that from evidence other than his route.” Kohl examined the head wound again then walked to the wall of the alley, on which a considerable amount of blood was spattered.
    “Ah.” The inspector was delighted to find the bullet, sitting where the cobblestones met the brick wall. He pickedit up carefully with a tissue. It was only slightly dented. He recognized immediately that it was a 9mm slug. This meant it most likely came from an automatic pistol, which would have ejected the spent brass cartridge.
    He said to the third Schupo, “Please, Officer, look over the ground there, every centimeter. Look for a brass shell casing.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Pulling his magnifying monocle from his waistcoat pocket and squinting through it, Kohl examined the projectile. “The bullet is in very good shape. That’s encouraging. We’ll see what the lands and grooves tell us back at the Alex. They’re quite sharp.”
    “So the killer has a new gun,” Janssen offered, then qualified his comment. “Or an old gun that has rarely been fired.”
    “Very good, Janssen. Those were to be my very next words.” Kohl put the slug in another brown envelope and sealed this one too. Writing more notes.
    Janssen again looked over the corpse. “If he wasn’t robbed, sir, then why are they turned out?” he asked. “His pockets, I am referring to.”
    “Oh, I didn’t mean he wasn’t robbed. I simply am not sure that robbery was the primary motive. . . . Ah,